


Heading Out to the Highway

by cambangst



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Family, Community: HPFT, Gen, Sirius Black's Flying Motorbike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 14:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6809473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cambangst/pseuds/cambangst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can try to be crazier than Sirius Black, but nine out of ten Healers do not recommend it. The tenth was just too old and deaf to understand the question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heading Out to the Highway

**Author's Note:**

> As always, that which you recognize from the books belongs to JK Rowling.

To hell with them! Every last bleeding one of them! If they’re determined to follow the rest of the pureblood fanatics over the cliff, that’s their problem!  
  
  
I storm away from Number 12 Grimmauld Place, slamming the old door with all my might to see whether I can get the whole bloody building to shake. Anything to piss off Orion and Walburga. The fury is boiling inside my chest, ready to explode at any moment. I nearly bowl over three muggles on the pavement outside, but I don’t even spare a glance of apology. Lord have mercy on anyone who gets in my way tonight because I am _not_ in the mood.  
  
  
There’s a rubbish bin full of empty cups and old newspapers sitting underneath a flickering streetlamp and I kick it as hard as I can, sending it crashing into the street. Then I kick it across the street for good measure. Lily would not approve of how I’m acting right now, but she can sod off. Her parents are muggles. I’m pretty damn sure they never punished her with hexes when she was little or convinced her sister to join the Death Eaters. That’s not such a bad idea, though. If that shrill, horse-faced bitch took the Dark Mark it would be a great day for our side.  
  
  
I can’t handle other people right now. I have to get away from everyone. If I go back to Mr. and Mrs. Potter’s house like this I’ll just wind up saying something stupid and making Lily upset and then James will get mad and I’ll have a right mess on my hands. Gotta calm down first. That, or turn around and curse the hell out of those bloody fools. The cowards would throw every dark curse at me they could think of, but that doesn’t matter. I spent the first sixteen years of my life being terrified of my parents. I’m done. If they want a fight, they’ll bloody well have one!  
  
  
It’s Moony’s little voice in the back of my mind that convinces me not to do it. Fucking Moony, as though he isn’t enough of a bother when he’s actually around. But the little voice has a point. One that’s at least good enough to pierce the crimson haze clouding my brain. Going after Orion and Walburga isn’t worth it. They’d just twist it around and make it seem like I attacked them for no reason. Poor Reg doesn’t need to see that. He’s fucked up in the head enough as it is. Plus they’d call the Ministry and it would be a first rate headache for James’s parents to pull strings and call in favors to smooth it all over. There, are you happy now, Moony? Great, furry wanker...  
  
  
I turn into an unkempt alleyway, feeling slightly more in control of myself. A flick of my wand lifts the Disillusionment Charm and there she is, my pride and joy. Which is a damn good thing, because if anything happened to her while I was wasting my breath on those miserable prats then I would have gone back and cursed the lot of them no matter what Moony thinks. A flip of a switch and a kick later, the bike roars to life and the painful tension in my chest begins to ease a bit. There’s something soothing about the hum of the engine. Just sitting on the bike makes me feel free. God, I sound like a bloody girl.  
  
  
Locking the front brakes and leaning in, I gun the engine, bringing the back of the bike around in a white cloud of tire smoke. The noise and the feeling of barely contained power and the smell of burning rubber are exhilarating. As pissed off as I am, a wicked grin still sneaks across my lips as I let go of the brakes and the bike lunges forward. I keep the throttle wide open as the busy street at the end of the alleyway gets closer and closer. Certain nights are made for dancing with the devil.  
  
  
At the last possible second, I pull back on the handlebars and the bike roars into the air. I’m never absolutely certain that it’s going to work because I did the enchantments myself, but that’s part of the thrill. The back tire strikes the top of a passing lorry and the bike twists violently to the right and pitches forward. For a few seconds, we’re completely out of control. I can feel the bike fighting me as I yank the handlebars around and gun the engine, straining muscle and magic alike. I bank hard to avoid crashing into the building across the street and end up sort of driving along the wall until I reach the corner. Most people would probably be freaking out at this point, but once I get the bike righted I throw my head back and laugh. You can try to be crazier than Sirius Black, but nine out of ten Healers _do not_ recommend it. The tenth was just too bloody old and deaf to understand the question.  
  
  
It’s a beautiful night as I gain altitude and turn to the west. The wind whipping through my hair and my beard feels so fresh and crisp. Nothing like the musty, stale air inside my parents’ house. I can almost feel the stench of Grimmauld Place being scoured away. Another hundred miles or so and it might even cleanse my mind of Orion and Walburga’s bullshite.  
  
  
The tension is back as soon as I think about them and I swallow hard and force my hands to relax on the controls. I should have realized they'd do this to Reg after I left. They've been grooming him for it his whole bloody life. All he ever heard was, "sorry, kid, you're sucking hind teat until your big brother either dies or screws up royally." That was how they controlled him, how they kept him hungry for their approval.  
  
  
When I met James and got sorted into Gryffindor, Reg saw his chance. The whole family was up in arms and he was determined to make the most of his opportunity. Just as Uncle Alphard had finally managed to talk everyone back into their tree about my sorting, Annie up and runs off with that muggle-born chap from Hufflepuff. I love Annie to death, but her timing sucks.  
  
  
Naturally, my parents pretended to be as barking mad about it as the rest of the family, but truthfully they were thrilled. Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella gloated incessantly and rubbed their noses in the fact that I wasn’t a Slytherin. When Annie ran off, it was payback time. After Reg got sorted into Slytherin, they did everything short of throwing a fucking parade. The rivalry didn’t end there, though. All the while, Bellatrix was torturing and killing her way up through the ranks of You Know Who’s followers until she finally earned her mark. Since Bella became the first Death Eater that the Dark Lord could shag on the side, my parents were hell-bent on Reg becoming the first Death Eater who was too young to shave. That's my family for you. They compete to see who can cock up their children the worst.  
  
  
Poor Reg. It’s not my fault that he ended up like this, but the disappointment grates on me anyway. When we were kids, I couldn’t get the little wally to leave me alone. He was like a bloody shadow. Thing is, Reg is still a kid in a lot of ways. He grew up on a spoon-fed diet of pureblood supremacist horseshit. We both did, but once I got to Hogwarts I figured out that halfbloods and muggle-borns can be more talented and way more fun than most of the purebloods I’d ever met. Reg got sorted into Slytherin so his brainwashing never missed a beat. Now he spends all his time hanging out with Travers and Jugson and the rest of the dungeon muppets. My brother may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s a towering intellect compared to the company he keeps these days. Sadly, that only makes him cockier and more sure of himself.  
  
  
As the lights of London begin to recede in the wing mirrors, I lean into the handlebars and head for the ground. Flying is a brilliant way to avoid all the slow-moving traffic in the city, but I’m not in a mood to play it safe tonight. I’m looking for a dark, twisting back road where I can get out all of my aggression. I need hairpin turns and steep hills and muggle drivers looking at me like I’ve gone stark, raving mad. I want close calls and near misses and the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. Fortunately, I know just the place.  
  
  
The bike jolts a bit as I set down on a narrow stretch of tarmac surrounded by drooping willow trees. The surrounding area looks like unspoiled farm country, but appearances can be deceiving. The farmers who used to work these hills are long gone. London society types bought out the family farms and built opulent manors where rough hewn cottages and barns once stood. The neatly paved drives and meticulously manicured grass are dead giveaways. They come out here because they get tired of the bustling, claustrophobic streets of London. They wanted to get away from it all. Well the poncey wankers are in for a rude surprise tonight. The _it_ they moved out here to get away from is about to come calling.  
  
  
The roar of the bike’s engine echoes through the little valley as I pour on the speed. Part of me wonders whether it’s too late for Reg. I hate to think of him that way, but if I’m being honest about it, there isn’t much hope. He has that bloody shite stain on his arm now, I’m sure of it. You Know Who’s little maniacs aren’t in the habit of showing it off to outsiders, but the smug look on his face when Walburga was going on about what an honor it is to be marked as a Death Eater didn’t leave much room for doubt. The stupid little git doesn’t have a clue what he’s gotten himself into.  
  
  
The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Reg is sixteen years old and my parents handed him over to a bunch of murderous psychopaths just to make a point. Sixteen years old and now he’s expected to hold his own in a bunch of bloodthirsty, sadistic nutters who kill for the fun of it. _If_ she deigns to help, maybe Bella can keep him safe for a little while. I doubt that even many of the Death Eaters would cross her. She’s completely fucking mental. But the minute You Know Who decides that Reg has worn out his welcome, she’ll probably kill him herself. And he will wear out his welcome sooner or later. Reg is a lot of things, but he’s not a killer. All he wanted to do was make his family proud, and that’s eventually gonna cost him his life. It’s all so fucking pointless.  
  
  
It gradually dawns on me that I’m not just angry at Reg for being such a prat, I’m scared for him. Yes, he’s a Slytherin and an arrogant pureblood nutter and a complete cock-up but he’s still my little brother. Part of me feels like I was gallivanting around Hogwarts with my friends when I should have been watching out for Reg and knocking some sense into him. I had him hundreds of miles away from Orion and Walburga for four bloody years and I pissed it away. Why? Because I was too busy having fun and I knew my Gryffindor friends wouldn’t want anything to do with him. Some brother I am.  
  
  
My tires are struggling to hold the pavement as I tear around a curve. I can just make out a pair of tail lights topping the next rise and I open up the throttle. Some gormless muggle blighter is about to get the shock of his boring little life. I feel light in the seat as I top the rise myself, giving me a pretty good idea of how fast I’m going. I haven’t bothered to look at the speedometer; the distraction could be deadly at this speed. I’m closing fast on the car I saw. It looks like a 1960’s Jaguar E-Type convertible. I remember reading about them in some old car magazines that James’s dad keeps around his study. They’re lightweight, powerful and bloody fast. I feel a bit of grudging respect for the muggle behind the wheel. Until I get a look at him, that is.  
  
  
I ease up on the throttle as I pull up alongside of the Jag and that’s when I see it. He’s wearing a bloody ascot. Who the hell does that? The tweed jacket and flat cap aren’t helping the effect either. If the colors were a little more mismatched, I’d think he worked for the Ministry of Magic. He turns toward me and we lock eyes for just a moment. His lip turns up dismissively and his chin tilts noticeably higher as he floors the accelerator. This guy has got to be the biggest wanker I’ve ever seen! That does it. I’m making James buy a bike and we’re driving down here every bloody weekend just to terrorize this bunch of tossers.  
  
  
The Jag has a lot of power but the tweedy doorknob behind the wheel is afraid to really turn it loose and pretty soon I’m back on his rear bumper. We both dive into a sharp turn, tires squealing and brakes whining in protest, then accelerate into another long, gradual rise. I swerve right to pass him- holy shite! The arsehole just cut me off! Who in the bloody hell does he think he is? I move back into our lane and he swerves in front of me again. We run out of straightaway and brake into the next turn. This is where I know I’ll get him. The Jag may have the power to compete with the bike, but it’s nowhere near as maneuverable. He shades as far to the center of the curve as he dares, but I still cut inside of him. If there’s a car coming in the direction, well... I’ll deal with that when it happens.  
  
  
Fortunately, there isn’t a lorry waiting to splatter my innards all over the pavement and we come out of the curve side by side. The guy in the ascot is pushing the Jag as hard as it will go, unwilling to concede. He nudges the wheel dangerously in my direction, but I refuse to flinch. Sizing him up, I’m pretty sure that his mates at the Wanker Bank of London wouldn’t be too pleased if he got arrested for running a motorcycle off the road while racing his car. Of course, for all I know he stole the Jag after escaping from prison and nicked that outfit from some charity shop. Either way, he's not gonna intimidate me.  
  
  
What is a bit intimidating is the narrow bridge that just appeared as we came around the bend in the road. That’s gonna be a problem. I can't pull far enough ahead of the Jag to go in front of him and I'm damn sure not gonna back down. That means I either have to run him off the road, which isn't bloody likely with my two wheels against his four, or...  
  
  
Oh, this is brilliant. Mean-spirited. Cruel. Borderline muggle-baiting. But brilliant, nonetheless. First, I have to give an award-winning performance. I turn toward the Jag and start waving my free hand and making all sorts of faces and rude gestures. A flash of anxiety passes over him, but he shakes it off and pretends he doesn’t see me. He obviously knows the bridge is there and only one of us is going to make it across. I continue to act like a complete yob, shouting insults that neither one of us can hear over the roar of the engines. This is actually amazing stress relief. Maybe I should start following football.  
  
  
When we’re about halfway to the bridge, he loses his nerve. He turns toward me with an alarmed look in his eyes, thrusting his finger toward the windscreen, trying to get me to look forward. Instead, I bite my thumb at him and pull a few more choice faces. He’s frantic now, gesturing wildly. In my head, I know we can’t be more than fifty paces from the bridge. I give him one last two-finger salute and then turn forward, pretending that I’ve only just noticed the problem. My whole body tenses up, which isn’t really an act because this is going to be a tricky maneuver.  
  
  
The little bridge spans a ravine that’s probably a hundred feet wide. On either side of the bridge, the ground quickly drops away into darkness. I steer the bike off of the pavement so I don’t hit the side of the bridge and then I throw my arms over my face for maximum dramatic effect. As soon as I feel the ground disappear and the bike starts to fall, I grab the handlebars and take flight. Banking hard to the left, I swoop underneath the bridge and then soar out of the other side of the ravine. My tweedy chum is already on the other side. From my vantage point fifty feet above the ground, I see him look over his shoulder, probably expecting some sort of explosion like you see in muggle films. Just when he gives up and makes to flee the scene, I drop out of the sky beside the Jag and pull the scariest face I can manage. Not that he could hear it, but I even yell, “Boo!”  
  
  
I’ve never had much use for cameras, to be honest. A lot of my most cherished memories aren’t the sort of thing where I’d want there to be photographic evidence. At the moment, however, I’d give half the gold in Gringotts for a picture of this wanker’s face. The combination of confusion and shock and fear is absolutely priceless. He slams on his brakes and the Jag disappears in my wake as it fishtails to a stop. The responsible thing to do would probably be to go back and try to modify his memory, but why should I start acting responsibly now? Besides, what’s he going to say? _I was drag-racing some bloke on a flying motorbike._ They’d toss him in the drunk tank and throw away the key.  
  
  
I blow out a long, slow breath, feeling the last of the angry tension leave my body. I’m ready to talk now, at least to James. Maybe by the time I get to the Potters’ house, I’ll be ready to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Potter as well. Lily... well, let’s hope she takes the hint and just listens for a change. I don’t know why, but I’m sure they’ll all be waiting up for me when I arrive. I never mentioned that I was going to see my family, but somehow Mrs. Potter always seems to know. Maybe that’s just how real mothers are.  
  
  
Maybe I should fly the rest of the way. It would probably cut a good half hour off of the trip. But where’s the fun in that? It’s too nice of a night to get in a hurry about anything. With this war going on, who knows how much time any of us have left. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

**Author's Note:**

> Story inspired by the song Heading Out on the Highway by Judas Priest (Halford, Downing, Tipton - from the album Point of Entry - 1981).
> 
> I love writing crazy, devil-may-care Sirius Black. So much fun! I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for reading!


End file.
